


Need (no one but me)

by i_claudia



Series: summer pornathon 2014 [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, Knifeplay, Other, Summer Pornathon 2014, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These aren’t her rooms. It’s not her bed that she’s spread out on, her knees nowhere near together enough to be ladylike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need (no one but me)

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge 4 of the Summer Pornathon 2014: Tropesmash

Gwen’s not afforded much privacy -- certainly not enough to be completely sure no one will walk through the doors -- but that’s all part of the game, really. There’s a hot swell of something in her belly when she thinks about it, about what anyone might see, might think, finding her like this; it’s not quite pleasure and not quite shame, and it twists uncomfortably when she meets her own gaze in Morgana’s mirror. 

These aren’t her rooms. It’s not her bed that she’s spread out on, her knees nowhere near together enough to be ladylike. It _is_ her knife between her fingers, though: well-cared for, the small blade sharp as the day it was made. It’s a lady’s knife, delicate, with a filigreed handle, and it is her favorite. It looks well here, against her skin and Morgana’s bedding, and she draws the flat of it slow across her ribs until it rests beneath her left breast, watching it in the mirror, the small imperfections in the glass distorting the picture just enough to make her dizzy. Anticipation is buzzing down her spine, dancing out across her elbows and the soles of her feet, setting her naked body tingling. She presses a little harder as she draws the point of the knife expertly around and up her breastbone, biting her lip as she sees the scratch bloom up against the skin. 

There’s a noise from the corridor, and Gwen doesn’t jump, the knife cradled steady in her hand. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, closes her teeth harder on her lip until the pressure is too much. The bedding beneath her is damp; her thighs are slick. She reaches for herself, opening her eyes again to watch -- one hand curving just around her inner thigh, as if for balance, while the other pressed the knife flat against her other leg. There are fading scratches here -- it’s safe, where no one will see and ask questions. She’s drawn maps to guide her own fingers in deep, fucking herself while the sting of the knife yanks the floor out from beneath her more effectively than any sorcerer. 

She’s already close today, straining to hear any hint of movement at the latch, but the door stays shut and her knife moves slow, deliberate, scratching a careful row of lines up her thigh toward her cunt. Her hair sticks to her forehead in tendrils. She doesn’t have to look in the mirror to see the sweat beading along her nape and the creases of her body. She pushes further into her touch, into her knife: undone, unable to articulate how it feels, how nothing else has ever been able to match what this brings to her. There is pleasure, yes; a rich and plummy sort of feeling, filling her like a too-ripe fruit warmed in the sun, and the pain wraps thin and delicate around it, pulling her taut until her skin splits beneath it and she spills. 

She’s gasping now, her arms trembling, and she leans back to spread her knees further, open herself wide so she can watch as she touches herself, fingers sliding in the slick and spreading it in desperate trails across the inside of her leg, the knife following eagerly behind. She flicks the blade -- not enough to draw blood, never quite that far -- and gasps at the sharp jab of it, slaps the flat of the blade against the spot before the giddy thrill fades. She feels debauched, indestructible, and when she comes it’s with her eyes fixed on the slackness of her face in the mirror, the way the shock ripples through her in a wave as she thrusts two fingers deep, the knife clenched in one sticky hand.


End file.
